


Sergei Bobrovsky: Elite Goaltender and Actual Cinnamon Roll

by AaliyahManira



Series: Love Thy Goalie [6]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Cinnamon Roll, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 22:23:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13890378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AaliyahManira/pseuds/AaliyahManira
Summary: They lose and it takes Nick about 1000x too long to realize Sergei thinks it's his fault.





	Sergei Bobrovsky: Elite Goaltender and Actual Cinnamon Roll

Nick waited for Sergei when they skated off of the ice. They’d lost and the scoreboard was hanging over them like the sharp blade of a guillotine, but Nick knew his team well. He knew they’d take it in stride, learn from it, and play better the next time. Losing sucked, but his team—or most of it anyway—would be okay.

There was only one person Nick was worried about after a game like that. With a final score like 7-2, he knew his Goalie was going to need him. He had to make sure Bobrovsky knew it wasn’t his fault. Forty-five shots and thirty-eight saves was still one hell of a night. Nick knew with complete certainty that any other goal tender would have faltered under the pressure of that many saves. He knew that without Bobrovsky between the pipes they’d have ended up with a final closer to 12-2 and they’d be having an entirely different conversation when they got to the locker room. He knew, in the same way he knew how to adjust his balance so he wouldn’t fall when he stepped out on to the ice, that Bobrovsky was the only reason the game hadn’t been a complete bloodbath.

So, he stayed at the door as each of his team mates skated by, heading for the locker room in almost complete silence. Bobrovsky was last off, like he always was, skating toward Nicky with his water bottle in his hand and his mask pushed up onto the top of his head. Unlike every other game, the wins and the losses, Sergei didn’t say a word. He didn’t stop to hug his Captain. He didn’t pat his helmet or lean over to bump it with his own. He didn’t even look at Nick. He set his water bottle down and headed straight for the locker room.

Nick had a rule against fighting with goalies. He never went after them unless they started something with him, because they were too important, too at risk of getting hurt. The last goalie he’d started a fight with had been Gibson, when the jack ass reached back and tripped him. But in that moment, he decided that there might have to be an exception to the rule. He’d call it ‘the Bobrovsky Exception’, reserved for specific moments when the world’s greatest goal tender forgot that he was, in fact, the world’s greatest goal tender and threw himself a pity party. Nick stormed down the hallway after Bobrovsky.

In retrospect, Nick knew there were about a million better places to fight with your goalie than in the middle of a hallway right after a lost game where reporters could see you. In the moment though, he didn’t care. The second they were clear of the fans’ and he was sure the noise of the arena would drown out their voices, he grabbed Bobrovsky by the arm and forced him to turn around. He’d been ready to scream at him, but there were no words he could think of to describe what he saw in Bob’s eyes and every bit of what he was going to say died on his lips. He tried to turn back around, tried to keep moving toward the locker room, but Nick wouldn’t let him.

“What you want, Nicky?” Sergei yanked his arm free of Nick’s hold and for a second, Nick wondered if he was going to throw his stick, drop his gloves, and fight back. “Want me tell you sorry? Tell you I know I played badly? I do. I did. Can I go now?” Bobrovsky turned away again and this time, when Nick grabbed him and spun him around, he didn’t give him the time to say anything at all. He pulled him into a hug tighter than any he’d given before and through all fifty pounds of Sergei’s gear, Nick could feel him shaking.

It was in that moment that he realized Sergei Bobrovsky—world’s greatest goal tender and cinnamon roll—really believed that they’d lost the game because of him. Because—of all things— _he_ hadn’t played well. Thirty-eight saves on forty-five shots, with no defense, no leadership, and not a single member of his team pulling their weight, and Bobrovsky was ready to blame it all on himself.

“I’m so proud of you, Bobrovsky.” Nick said quietly, voice pitched so that only Bob could hear it. Bobrovsky dropped his stick to the ground and let his arms come up around Foligno’s back. They stayed like that for a long while, until the sound in the arena behind them had faded and Bobrovsky had stopped trembling.

“Do better next time,” Nick pulled back and took Sergei’s face in his hands. He shook his head.

“Of course you will, Bobrovsky, you always do. But you shouldn’t have to. You didn’t lose that game tonight. You played better than any of us had a right to expect you to. Next time, we’ll do better for you.” Tears welled up in Sergei’s eyes and he let his Captain pull him into another long hug.


End file.
